


The Engagement

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Loveless
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Not Britpicked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 12:22:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie acquires a valet. <i>And</i> a Fighter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Engagement

Now I don't know how it is for the rest of the populace--those without a title propping up the family tree or an aunt or two to remind one that one's ancestors had chummed it up with bishops and kings--but it's a rather rummy business, this fighting pairs thing. To hear Aunt A. talk, it's just another chapter in the noble Wooster history, but don't let that fool you. Not only is the tradition alive and well in her heart--shriveled and blackened though it may be--she's already buried one Fighter and somehow managed to dupe a second into signing on for the part. Though I imagine in her case the post is a superfluous one, if that's the word I want. I mean to say, she already breathes fire and crushes with a look; adding spells to that just doesn't seem sporting.

Still, as these things go, it's certainly the aunts who got all the luck in the family. Not that anyone I knew paid any attention to the whole _names_ wheeze. Making do with a Fighter who'd come from sturdy middleclass stock was one thing, but a Sacrifice? You'd be better off marrying that chorus girl you'd got your heart set on, or the bricklayer, for that matter. Not that life was all roses for those of the Sacrificial bent, at least if one didn't also happen to be of the fairer sex. Instead every filly with even the slightest bit of Fighting spirit assumed it was only a matter of time before there was a matching of names that had less of destiny and more of matrimony in the particulars. Well, I don't mind saying the whole thing left me cold. If Bertram Wooster's better half wasn't to be his _other_ half, then count him out.

That I should find myself one of Aunt Agatha's least favorite people as a result should come as no surprise. All things considered, it was lucky she hadn't turned out a Fighter after all, because she could darken the very air with a well-placed "Sentimental rubbish," and the treatment she gave the word "romantic" could have given Gabriel's trump a run for its money. What I hadn't expected was that Spode of all people would share her opinion, and he was in a better position to make those slings and arrows stick.

Our conversation when he popped by the flat one afternoon went something like this:

"Wooster."

"What ho, Spode!"

"You miserable wretch. I suppose you think you have the right to string people along just because you were born a Sacrifice."

"Oh, er...I say. We don't share a name, do we?"

"Don't be disgusting. The only thing I intend to share with you is the Dueling Room at Totleigh Towers."

"What?"

"Saturday. Six o'clock. I will be fighting unaccompanied," Spode added bitterly, a traditionalist to the end. If he'd still had a tail, it would have been lashing fit to endanger the lamps, but the clench of his fists seemed straightforward enough.

"But--but I don't even have a Fighter!" I reminded him, feeling decidedly green.

The look he gave me sent chills down my spine, so closely did it resemble the sort of warning shot Aunt Agatha was wont to fire across the bow of some nephew she intended to scupper. "A word from you could change that," he growled, "not that you deserve her. Give Madeline your name, and we'll say no more about it."

Hang on. I don't believe I've introduced Madeline yet, and if you haven't seen her, there's simply no believing her. She's a friend of my cousin Angela's, and while she's certainly not bad to look at, being stuck next to her at the dinner table tends to make a person wish he'd never clapped eyes on her in the first place. I've heard her say in all seriousness that bluebells are the cups in which the Fairy Queen takes her tea, and the idea of hearing that over the morning spread for the rest of my life was enough to turn me pale.

Naturally I tried to reason with Spode. Not to put too fine a point on it, the Code of the Woosters is decidedly _for_ the opening of doors and holding of chairs and _against_ the chucking of ladies into harm's way. Even if Madeline weren't one of those irredeemably soppy girls who think the stars are God's daisy chain, I could hardly expect her to shoulder this Wooster's battles. Worse still, the sort of spells she might unleash on an unsuspecting pair in the heat of the moment didn't bear thinking about.

Spode wouldn't hear a word of it. He merely growled again--as if, having lost both ears and tail along the way, he'd managed to acquire a pair of fangs as replacement--and showed himself out, slamming the door behind him.

It was one of those moments when I desperately wished there was someone to rally 'round the young master with a sympathetic ear and a stiff b. and s., the s. being negotiable. Sadly the Wooster stock was on the thin side in the matter of sympathetic ears, as I'd had to turn off my previous man, Meadowes, just the other day for pinching my socks. Not precisely the sterling qualities one looks for in a gentleman's personal gentleman, and it wasn't as if he'd been upholding the Wooster honor by force of words. When it came to Fighters and Sacrifices, as the American chappie had it, sometimes a valet is just a valet.

Well, with so little to recommend the homestead in the wake of Spode's visit, I dropped a hat over the old ears, collected my coat, and tottered off to the Drones for a spot of sympathy in my time of trials. I was in luck, as it turns out, as Catsmeat had swung by just the hour before with a laundry list of smart new cocktails from New York with the most corking names you can imagine, and McGarry was hard at work behind the bar mixing up all and sundry.

When the cold, grey light of dawn hove itself over the horizon, it did so without the company of Bertram Wooster. I make it closer to ten before I shuffled out of bed, and while I knew it was some vague presentiment of doom that had put a few wrong stitches in the raveled sleeve of care, it was only as I was cinching up the neckwear that I realized the trouble.

"I say!" I said. "It's Saturday today!"

Before I could quite wrap the old bean around that, the front bell rang.

I don't know if you've ever been in the soup--not a thin spot of consommé; more of a bisque, really--and opened the door to find the answer to all your troubles lifting a bowler hat a respectful few inches from his head, but let me tell you, it's much easier to recognize this when it happens if you haven't been making merry with the lads until the wee hours of the morning. I believe I may have goggled at him for a moment, but eventually I managed a: "Yes?"

"I was sent by the agency, sir," he said. "I was given to understand that you required a valet."

"Oh? Oh! Well, stagger in," I said, "stagger in." As for myself, I promptly staggered off to the couch to nurse my aching head. I could hardly believe I'd been such a chump; not only was I scheduled to face Spode in single combat in a matter of hours, but I would have to do so feeling as if I'd already gone three rounds with the chap before I'd even begun. Even my ears hurt, and I rubbed them gingerly, trying to coax them into something like a perk from the listless droop they were currently sporting.

"Excuse me, sir," murmured the fellow from the door, and then I must have blinked or something, because he sort of shimmered off somewhere. To the kitchen I decided, hearing a few faintish noises from that direction. Before I was feeling quite up to questioning the whys and wherefores, the fellow was back, holding out a glass on a tray. "If you would drink this, sir."

I wouldn't want you to think that Bertram is in the habit of accepting strange concoctions from just anyone, but at the moment, a dose of arsenic in a clean glass would have seemed a mercy. And for a moment there, after I'd actually downed the lot, I would have laid odds that that was exactly what he'd given me. My tail fluffed out like a bottlebrush first thing, and my ears started twitching every which way. There was a sort of a rattle and then a sort of a shudder, and after my stomach did precisely two and a half somersaults an Olympic committee wouldn't have sniffed at, all was pretty much right with the world. Headache gone, uncertainty of the tum ruthlessly banished, eyes no longer flinching from the light. It was some rather amazing stuff, I can tell you.

"You're engaged!" I said immediately, and I don't doubt that I looked like one of those saints or shepherds you see in those old paintings. The ones standing around admiring some smashing bit of work by the Lord, I mean, not the ones poked through with arrows or wondering where the dickens that hundredth sheep could have got to.

"Thank you, sir," this marvel said with a hint of a curve to the very corners of his mouth. "My name is Jeeves."

"You can start in at once?"

"Immediately, sir," he replied, which was something of a relief.

"That's something of a relief. I'm to be at Totleigh Towers by six this evening, and...well, the odds are better than even that I'll be requiring an escort home." Actually, these particular odds more heavily favored my needing an undertaker. Who ever heard of a Sacrifice battling it out with a Fighter? But we Woosters had made a fine showing at Agincourt, and never let it be said that the warlike spirit was dead in the Wooster breast.

"Would this be a matter of honor, sir?" Jeeves asked, the very picture of unflappability. It might have been centuries ago, with self proposing to cross swords with some hated rival in the wilds of Green Park.

"I'm afraid it is, Jeeves," I said with some gravity, putting on the brave face.

"I see. Then you will be requiring a Fighter, sir."

You could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather.

"A Fighter, Jeeves? You don't mean to say--"

"Yes, sir. I do have some experience in that area."

"And...you don't mind about the whole names thing?" I had to ask.

"No, sir. I understand the practice isn't widely followed amongst the upper classes," he said, his face perfectly...what's the word I want? Serene, that's the one. "It will present no difficulty, sir."

"We'd be up against Black," I felt it only fair to warn him. "Roderick Spode. The man's some species of ogre, and that's just in the sitting room."

"Yes, sir. I'm told he is a formidable Fighter, despite being unaccompanied by a Sacrifice. Shall I begin packing?"

Well, I mean to say. I didn't know where that confidence was coming from, but one of us certainly needed it if we were going to face Spode in a challenge.

We took the two-seater, and though we made a fairly leisurely trip of it, conversation was a bit sparse. I had too much on my mind for idle chatter, and Jeeves respected my silence with an unruffled calm I could scarcely credit. A rock, that was what he was, or do I mean brick? Some sort of unyielding bit of support, anyway, and by the time we arrived at the Bassett estate, the young master was feeling awfully braced, ready to take on any number of Spodes with such a steady hand to hoist the standard.

I admit I wasn't prepared to meet Madeline at the door, and I confess I may have turned pale.

"Oh, Bertie," she sighed, gazing up at me with melting eyes, her ears drooping pitifully. "Is it true?"

Realizing that she might have gotten the wrong idea--that I was here to ask for her hand, not willing just hours before to face Spode by myself to get out of it--I jumped to set things straight. "Ah, well. We--my man Jeeves and I, that is--just have a spot of business to clear up with Spode, that's all. Won't take but a moment."

"Oh, Bertie," she said again, "that's so sweet of you."

Somehow I got the notion I hadn't jumped quite fast enough.

"Er...yes, well--"

"You know I would fight for you, of course. But wanting to protect me from it...I've always known you had the noblest of souls."

"Well, that is--"

_"Wooster."_

I never thought the day would ever come when I'd be happy to see Spode come bearing down on me, but at that moment I could have...well, not kissed him, no. But shaken his hand very warmly, certainly.

"Well, here we are, Spode," I said cheerily, not wanting him to think he had me rattled. "This is Jeeves, by the way; he'll be acting as my Fighter."

If anything, Spode looked more sinister than before, glaring darkly at me and Jeeves alike in turn. "I see," he growled, and it didn't take much imagination to hear the unspoken _You'll regret this, Wooster_ in his voice. "Excuse me, Madeline," he said, turning to la Bassett with a more respectful sort of rumble--almost humble, if you can credit it. " _Clueless_ and I have business in your Dueling Room."

"Here, now!" I protested. "That's _Blind._ "

Spode pretended not to have heard, leading the way to the Dueling Room while Madeline trailed after us, no doubt full of sighs over how romantic it all was.

If you happen to have an old enough family or an old enough house, chances are good that you also have a Dueling Room, so I probably don't need to explain this to you. But for those of you lucky enough to get out of practicing over the hols, I should probably just mention a few things before we go any further.

For instance, every Dueling Room is different. Some favor bare walls and empty floors, a pure battle of words alone; others prefer their rooms fitted out like a museum, with heaps of family relics and gewgaws festooned over every surface. That's why it's never a good idea to accept a challenge if the person pitching the gauntlet insists on holding this love-feast at home. One man's awful knickknack could be another's ace in the hole.

The Bassett home, I'm pleased to say, weighed in on the side of the purists, though I don't doubt Sir Watkyn Bassett would have preferred to fight with his entire silver collection around him. Uncle Tom was the same way. Now I didn't know much about Jeeves' fighting style--actually, it'd be safer to say I didn't know anything about it at all--but he seemed like a very precise sort of chap to me, and that's always a good thing to have in a Fighter. Not that I had much experience to draw from. That is, I sat the same courses as all of us with the knack, first at Eton, then at Oxford. But we always just paired up with each other when it came time to practice, and not to be disparaging of old school chums, but not a one of them were what I'd call steady under fire.

With Jeeves it was different right from the start.

"I must ask, sir," Jeeves began after the door was shut behind us, leaving Madeline to await the outcome outside. "Is it still your intention to engage Mr. Wooster in a challenge?"

"It is," Spode growled, possibly disgruntled at having the formalities taken out of his hands. Jeeves pressed on before he could snatch at the reins.

"And you intend to fight unaccompanied?"

"I do."

"Then I will be acting as the Fighter for Blind," Jeeves said, tilting his head respectfully, though I noticed he'd dropped the 'sirs' from the conversation. "If you are ready, let us begin."

I don't know if you've ever fought alongside the likes of Bingo Little or Tuppy Glossop before, but I've heard battles begun any number of ways in my time, and I can safely say I've never heard anything quite as formal as Jeeves' opener there. My old professors would have wept for joy.

Everything sort of faded out after that, the way it always did, until it was just the three of us standing in an empty field of black. Rather unsettling the first time it happens to one, but it becomes familiar enough after a while. I could tell that Spode was champing at the bit, and I almost expected to see him snort and paw the earth, except of course that there wasn't any earth for him to dig a hoof into. Watching him draw breath to fling a spell our way, I wondered suddenly if I hadn't been a little too hasty. That is to say, it's the job of a Sacrifice to provide his Fighter with some sort of direction, and here I didn't even know what mine could do. What if I told him to bob and it turned out he was better at weaving? The only fault would be my own.

Baring his teeth, Spode ground out, _"Cru--"_

"I couldn't advise it, sir."

For a moment it looked like Spode might have bitten his tongue in half, his mouth snapped shut so sharply.

_"What?"_

"I couldn't advise it, sir," Jeeves repeated calmly, standing perfectly straight on his patch of nothingness, stationed precisely between self and Spode.

"You...ad...you can't...."

I'd never seen anyone turn quite that shade of red before--I thought magenta, but when I asked Jeeves later, he voted for cerise. And all the while Jeeves just stood there, one hand clasping the other behind his back. I probably ought to have been urging him to press on, but the truth was, I was nearly as taken aback as Spode.

_"Crush!"_ the man practically roared when he found his voice at last, and I braced myself for either a walloping blow or the strangling sting of restraints.

"Contain," Jeeves replied without raising his voice, and then, in unstoppable, unhurried succession, "Distort. Return."

Let me see if I can explain what just happened. There'd been these oversized boulder thingummies--and I imagine my old professors are still arguing over whether they're real or not, since they never seem to have done any damage to the ancestral pile once the spell battle is over. But for our purposes, let's weigh in on the side of 'real,' because regardless of any property damage that might not result, if a giant hunk of imaginary rock lands hard enough on the old onion, one is still just as dead at the end of it.

So there was Jeeves, and there were the boulders, only after the first word, they weren't falling anymore. After the second, they didn't look so much like boulders anymore; they looked more like pointed spikes, and the points weren't aimed in our direction, at that.

At the third, they began moving again, but this time they were moving towards Spode.

"Nullif-- _Shield!"_ Spode shouted, changing his mind at the last second, which would have been awfully impressive if he hadn't been trying to drop those rocks on my side of the field in the first place. "Freeze!" he added, and it seemed like he'd taken inspiration from Jeeves' own wheeze, because it was spikes of ice this time. Nasty-looking stuff.

"Fracture," Jeeves murmured, and the spikes burst into snow flurries. "Dissolve. You're very straightforward, sir, if you don't mind my saying so."

"I'm not falling for your tricks!"

"Not at all, sir," Jeeves said, sounding faintly scandalized that Spode would even think it. "I find it quite refreshing."

I could tell Spode didn't like that, but what was the poor blighter to do? He stood there working his mouth for a moment, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. I imagine he was thinking that no matter which angle he came at us from, it was bound to be wrong; he might have had us matched in brute force, but there was nothing he could come up with that Jeeves couldn't deflect, twist to his own purpose.

"Blind," Spode muttered at last under his breath.

"Yes?" I asked, waiting for the rest of it.

_"Blind."_

Rummy thing, that. I'd sort of forgotten that Spode was _Black._

All at once, what little I could see simply wasn't there anymore, just those funny creeping threads of color you get when you're somewhere pitch dark, straining your eyes for the least scrap of light. Even my first battle hadn't been as unnerving as this, and though I could feel the collar that snapped around my neck, I couldn't see it. I think in another moment I might have panicked, only it occurred to me just as suddenly that I wasn't alone.

"Jeeves," I said, voice coming out strained and soft, and I reached out for the broad back I knew was right in front of me.

I'm not sure I understand myself what happened just then. I felt cloth under my fingertips, the weave of his suit, but also a sort of warmth I really can't put into words. It was a bit like being back at home when I was a boy, curled up snug in my old bed in my old room, the sounds of a piano and a sweet, soft soprano drifting down the hall. Or maybe a bit like sipping a hot toddy over Christmas at Brinkley Court, the sort of thing that warmed you all the way down to the marrow and turned your head at the same time, only you didn't mind about that, because even if you made a total ass of yourself, the only ones who'd see you at it would forgive you anyway. Whatever it was, it quite took my breath for a moment, and by the time I'd gotten it back, Jeeves had turned, my hand falling away.

"My apologies, sir. If you will permit me...?"

"Of course," I said, though I had no idea what I was agreeing to. It just seemed to me that Jeeves had been doing better than all right on his own, and that I should probably give the man his head. "Whatever you think best."

"Very good, sir," he replied, just before his fingers slipped under my collar. Not my shirt collar, you understand, but the stinging knot of spells wrapped around my throat. He leaned in so close I thought he was going to kiss me, and...well, I don't suppose I would have minded. It happened pretty often, actually, what with so many mismatched pairs trying to make a go of it, and there were other sorts of ties you could get to work even if your names didn't quite dovetail at the edges.

Instead I felt his breath at my ear as he said, very softly, "Remember, sir, that we are _Blind._ "

I don't know what he did just then, and I doubt that being able to see it would have helped. All I know is that when he tugged smoothly at the collar around my neck, it came away easy as you please, and all at once I could see again. I wasn't sure if Jeeves could--he was looking rather stoically just past my left ear--but I'd wager anything you like that Spode _couldn't._ Whatever he thought he was seeing, it wasn't Jeeves turning with that collar in hand, wrist tucking in in perfect form before snapping out again, launching that collar like a discus.

It flew like anything, the glowing length of the chain attached to it curving silently in its wake until the whole thing snapped around Spode's neck with a decisive-sounding click. "Brilliant!" I think I said as Spode started like a horse given a nip from the first horsefly of the season, hands flying to his throat in shock. "Shall we move in for the kill, then?"

"I don't think it will be necessary, sir," Jeeves surprised me by saying.

"No, Jeeves?"

"No, sir. Our opponent appears to have restricted himself."

It took a moment for what he was implying to sink in, but my ears perked up sharp once I got it. "You mean that wasn't your restraint, Jeeves?"

"No, sir."

Well, that was the absolute limit. "I've never heard of anyone binding themselves before. How's he supposed to get out of it?"

"I really couldn't say, sir. It's possible he'll have to wait until his power exhausts itself."

By then the nothingness was collapsing around us, the world fading back in now that there was only one Fighter holding it off. Rather convenient, that; Spode was in no shape to lend a hand, being entirely taken up with the business of gurgling and sputtering.

The only pall on our triumph was that when we opened the door, Madeline was waiting for us outside.

"Bertie!" she cried, falling into my arms.

Well, I mean to say. What?

It was a much subdued Wooster who presented himself for dinner that night, not safely on his way back to London as planned but pinned under the horrified eyes of Sir Watkyn Bassett and the soppily worshipful ones of his daughter. Spode, at least, was mercifully absent, having been bunged straight into bed to hopefully sleep the whole thing off. It's awfully hard on a fellow to find himself envying the likes of Spode, but after the strained hour I spent at the table that evening, I would gladly have been carried out on a stretcher in his place rather than be shown up to a guest room by an underbutler. My only consolation was that I had not, as far as I could tell, actually asked the Bassett menace to join with me in that noble estate of which one hears so much. Not that that seemed to be dimming her enthusiasm; she apparently was taking the words as said.

I had sort of been hoping to find Jeeves within, laying out the pyjamas or whatever it was such marvels did when they weren't tricking the young master's enemies into vanquishing themselves. Truthfully I just wanted to talk to the man. I'd never seen anyone fight so well before, and I was a little curious as to who he'd performed the office for in the past.

Instead the room was empty, though I could tell he'd been there. Something about the perfect way the bed had been turned down, the lamp left burning, my cigarette case on the table, right where I would have wanted it. I could have rung for him of course, and if I'd known him as well then as I do now, I would have done so at once, if only to present the problem of my unspoken engagement to la Bassett to his magnificent brain. Instead I stayed up smoking and thinking longer than I perhaps ought to have, and was still presentable for public viewing when there came a furtive knock on my door.

I don't know why I thought it would be Jeeves. Something about that moment while I'd been collared, I suppose, when he might have kissed me but hadn't. You can imagine my disappointment when I found Madeline there instead, smiling up at me teary-eyed but brave, her hands clasped under her chin.

"Oh, Bertie," she said, "I can't let you do it!"

"Er," I managed. "Do what?"

"I know you love me, but it's not meant to be. Don't throw away this chance for my sake--I couldn't bear it!"

"Oh--well, that's...that's very--"

"You are so lucky, Bertie," she said softly. "Don't ever forget that."

She was gone before I could point out that first I'd have to know what she was trying to remind me of before I could worry about misplacing it, but I suppose that didn't matter. Even I could tell that the engagement, if there had ever been one, was off.

When I received a second knock--firm but unobtrusive--not five minutes later, this time I knew who it was.

"Jeeves," I said as I opened the door, "I've just had the strangest visit. From Madeline Bassett, in fact."

"Yes, sir," Jeeves said, stepping smoothly inside as I moved away from the door. Odd how I hadn't noticed before--well, he had been wearing a hat for at least half of the entire time I'd known him, which amounted to roughly fourteen hours, give or take a mo'--but he was still possessed of a pair of fine, silky black ears and quite the longest tail I'd ever seen. "We spoke earlier, when she expressed an interest in the details of the challenge."

"Oh? Well, maybe you can make sense of her, then. She seems to think...." I was almost embarrassed to say it. I might have gotten used to the idea of never finding my other half, but it was hardly fair on Jeeves, who was probably still looking for his. It was different when you didn't have aunts breathing down your neck, and everyone telling you it didn't matter, and what were the chances?

In that moment, much as it pains me to say it, I probably envied Jeeves more than any man alive.

"Yes, sir. I believe she may have read something of that nature into my words when I explained how I came to be acting as your Fighter. If I've caused any inconvenience--"

"Not at all, Jeeves! You've saved me from a fate worse than death. And for the second time today," I mused, "unless I've lost count. Provided we leave first thing in the morning, before she changes her mind, I think we can call this venture a success."

"I have already taken the liberty of packing, sir," Jeeves admitted, and though he didn't give himself away by so much as a twitch of his tail, I could tell he was amused. Something in the eyes, I think, or maybe the minute arch of his brow.

"You stand alone," I told him feelingly, which must have been a bit forward of me, I suppose. That infinitesimal smile smoothed out as I watched, professional politeness jumping in to fill the breach.

Then again, no one likes to be reminded.

"You were positively corking this afternoon, by the way," I threw out as a peace offering, sitting down on the edge of the bed with a grin. "I mean, I've never...you know...fought like my _name_ before. No one else's ever been able to make heads or tails of it."

Well, it wasn't a very straightforward name, after all. That was sort of the point entire. You were _supposed_ to underestimate a pair like Blind, or at least not see us coming, and _certainly_ never see us for what we are. Only there wasn't a pair; there was just me, trying to fit into shoes I didn't belong in with every Fighter they threw my way. Which, as anyone can tell you, mostly makes for sore feet.

"I'm glad to have given satisfaction, sir," Jeeves said, that tiny flash of a smile coming back. "Shall I lay out your pyjamas, sir? If you were hoping for an early start tomorrow...."

"Yes, Jeeves," I said, "please."

Watching him bustle silently about the room had a sort of soothing effect after the events of the day, and I think I was half asleep before he even managed to get me into my nightshirt. "Good night, Jeeves," I mumbled while my head was halfway to the pillows, and I believe I heard him give back the other half of that as he was turning out the lights, easing the door shut behind him.

That Jeeves. One in a million, and no doubt about it.

The fruity thing was, I couldn't actually remember ever calling the agency for a replacement valet in the first place, though I'd certainly meant to get around to it.

Still, no sense looking a gift Fighter in the mouth, what?


End file.
